


Until the end?

by Strange_johnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Boys In Love, Crisis, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, John is a good father, Light Smut, M/M, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Sherlock is a Good Parent, possible break up, so many feelings, they love each other so much but they are idiots, they should talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-30 00:03:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15084659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strange_johnlock/pseuds/Strange_johnlock
Summary: “And it’s so bloody typical. I am the one who has to change. You’re the great Sherlock Holmes, you’re perfect. It’s all my fault, isn’t it?”





	Until the end?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for the angst. I hope you'll survive
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful Amelia 

 The door clicks shut behind them and even as he looks pleased the sight of the lovely, homey decor of the room, Sherlock can see the tension in John's shoulders. It has been there for months, and Sherlock doubts he deserves to be called the world's most observant man anymore, because he had missed it, the alarms in his brain only going off when the fighting began. 

    They are both hard-headed men, only softened by their love for each other and at this point that love might not be enough anymore.

 

    They are not shouting at each other, not waking the neighbours. The fights are quiet, overshadowed by the unbearable tension. Sherlock wishes he had some sort of tool to part the anger and the fights and reach through to the man he had loved for over a decade.                 Maybe it is his stubbornness that makes him hold on to what remains of the happy relationship they once had, a stubbornness born in those years they had not been able to express their true feelings towards each other.

 

"It's nice." John forces a smile, putting his bag on the small table next to the door. 

 

    Anyone else would have used less generic adjectives like "breath-taking" or "the most beautiful thing I have ever seen", but not Dr. John Hamish Watson, not in this moment.

    The cabin is small, wooden and has a beautiful fireplace, kitchen and sleeping area. The wall left from where they entered is made of glass so they will be able see down to the lake, morning fog over the water and the mountains surrounding it, peaks covered in snow from their bed. The Lake is only a two-minute walk from their cabin, maybe they could have a fire and sit there in the evenings, watching the flames dance. John could sing one of his ridiculous songs and Sherlock would fall asleep against him.

 

"I hope Rosie is really okay with us staying away for a week." John sighs and Sherlock wonders if what he really meant to say is, “hopefully can I bear to be alone with you for a week." He bites his lip. It had been John's idea after all, an attempt to save them, after Sherlock had spent one to many nights sleeping on the sofa.

 

"She is thirteen years old, John. She’s probably excited to get rid of us for some time." 

 

    Sherlock makes his way to the small sitting area, flopping down on the bigger of two armchairs in front of the fire. "A little bit like home" Sherlock thinks, fingers tracing the armrest and taking in all the information on the fabric to calm his racing brain. 100% Polyester, charcoal. Foam and fibre filling.

     John shrugs out of his jacket, taking in the contents of the kitchen before kneeling on the floor to make fire. And suddenly his proximity is too much and Sherlock, stopping himself from jumping to his feet and to escape and instead gets up slowly.

 

"I'm going to explore the surroundings." He says, and there is no invitation for John to join him.

 

"Yeah, I'm going to... take a nap. Driving took its toll." Sherlock nods and the door clicks again, as it closes between them. 

* * *

 

 

    At night, John sleeps beside him in the narrow bed, soft snores filling the room and Sherlock allows himself to snuggle closer in an attempt to seek warmth.

 

"It's a wonder…," He thinks, "… that he even stayed for eight years with a man like you. A wonder, and you don't even believe in those. Maybe it's better if it ends here, before things get more ugly."

 

    Sherlock opens his eyes to look outside, the morning painting shadows of large trees onto the pathway, the fast movements of small animals barely noticeable in the dark, but their sounds a symphony of peace and calm. 

 

"We should have done this earlier." Sherlock realizes and turns his head to rest his nose against John's upper arm, which is flung over the pillow. 

 

"But no, Sherlock Holmes is about work all the time." He could admit that to himself, at least that.

 

    John smells like fire and wood, like the cheap body wash he uses and like John, a smell Sherlock has tried to recreate in a weak experiment before, unsuccessfully. This scent has always meant home, more than the four walls of 221b. John mumbles something in his sleep, not even a word and turns to lie on his right side, away from Sherlock. Only then does he allowed himself to cry.

 

* * *

 

     John made breakfast. They aren’t talking, not more than absolutely necessary and it feels like the opposite of a comfortable silence. It’s not like they haven’t got anything to say to each other, but they are scared to start, scared of what it could mean.

     John stares down at his hands, for some reason that makes Sherlock angry.

 

“Who will stay in the flat then?” he bursts out and the hurt on John’s face is satisfying. He still cares then.

 

    John’s hands bang down on the table, make the plates and cutlery clink. His knuckles are white as he balls those small, but capable digits into fists.

    His eyes are the sea, wild and unpredictable. Sherlock had always known it would be dangerous for a man afraid of drowning to look into them for too long.

 

    “Who’s going to... are you fucking kidding me, Sherlock? We’re doing this... to talk, to try to fix us, and you just give up?” John’s voice cuts the air like a piece of broken glass, pain bleeding from his words.

 

“Talk then.” The words are spit out like poison. 

 

“You haven’t talked to me since we came here. Not a word.”

 

    Sherlock forces himself to display a calm posture and facial expression just to annoy John even more, get to see more of this rage, because it fuels his own anger and anger is better than the pain and fear.

Instead, his pain is now visible on John’s face, painted into every line, darkening the fierce ocean of his eyes. 

 

“I don’t … I don’t know where to start.” He sounds defeated, small. 

 

“There’s so much, and then I can’t really grasp what’s wrong.”

 

He slumps back into his chair.

 

“I know.”

 

John huffs.

 

“Of course, you do. Go on, then.”

 

“You need to quit your job. You hate it.”

 

Like a phoenix from the ashes, the anger is back, and it’s blue, raging fire.

 

“I LOVE BEING A DOCTOR.”

 

“No, you don’t.” Sherlock is very certain. John is just so unobservant.

 

“YES, I DO. Don’t fucking try to tell me how I feel.” John gets up, leaning across the table and Sherlock takes a step back on instinct.

 

“And it’s so bloody typical. I am the one who has to change. You’re the great Sherlock Holmes, you’re perfect. It’s all my fault, isn’t it?” 

     Suddenly John is gone and the front door closes with such a force, Sherlock is afraid it might jump from its hinges.

* * *

 

 

      John sits on a small a rock by the lake, arms wrapped around his body, knees drawn to his chest. He reminds Sherlock so much of Rosie after one of the tantrums she has those at least once a week, Sherlock wishes this situation would be as easy to resolve as the things Rosie gets angry about.

     He knows John has calmed down by now, so has Sherlock. He needs to make clear what he wanted to say, needs to fix this.

He sits behind John, wraps his arms around him. John smells a little bit like the forest surrounding them, and sherlock buries his nose in his jumper where it covers his shoulder.

 

“Let me explain.” He whispers. He can feel John nod more than he can see it.

 

“I know you love being a surgeon, saving lives every day. It’s what you always wanted to do, and I wish you still could. I know it would make you so happy. But what you are doing, treating colds, the common flu, tedious work, it frustrates you, reminds you of what you could have been, what the bullet took from you.”

 

John’s hand finds Sherlock’s and their fingers interlace where they rest on John’s knees.

 

“You’re right. I… you’re right. I just, doing nothing would mean feeling even more useless. I barely accompany you to cases anymore, after you stopped getting yourself into mortal danger on a daily basis.” His laugh is small, but honest.

 

“I still have ten years of working at least and with Rosie all grown up… I know I bring the tension I feel back to our home, I know my frustration has affected us.”

 

“Have you ever thought about teaching, like Stamford does? It’s not surgery, but it is at least sharing your knowledge. Students would love your humour, your honesty, your sass.”

 

“God, I never considered that. That’s... I’ll have to think about that. Sounds good, actually. Brilliant.” 

 

    John leans back into him. “I’m not blaming this on you, John. I didn’t make it easier for you to come home, help you deal with your frustration. I should have tried to make you feel better the moment you walked in the door. I’m sorry I didn’t. I’m sorry I didn’t see.”

 

“You didn’t observe.” John says, and they both chuckle.

 

“God, we suck at talking.” John lets go of one of Sherlocks hands to pick up a stone and throw it towards the lake.

 

“Maybe we need help with it.” 

 

Sherlock closes his eyes, listens to the sound of stones against each other, as John picks up another one.

 

“I’m not writing a blog about it.” John smirks,

“But yes, therapy is something we should

consider. I would do anything to fix this. Fix us.”

“Me too, John.”

* * *

 

 

     He is beautiful in the silver light of the moon, hair in a state of disarray due to Sherlock’s fingers combing through it, pulling lightly, and Sherlock can’t look away. His hands rest on John’s hips and he pulls up his knees to support John’s back as he moves. It’s slow, tender, but desperate all the same. They need to reassure each other, make the other see what they can’t say, not with the limited range of words available. It’s not all resolved, just because they talked for once. There are so many things they still need to work on, it might take months, years, a lifetime. Now, there is hope, hope they can make it together.

 

“Sherlock.” John is always vulnerable when he is the one being penetrated, that’s why he’s on top, to feel control. They both need it like this right now, need to be close, let the other in.

Sherlock feels tense, but it’s tension he can let go of. “You first.” He whispers, voice hoarse.

John is amazing, head thrown back a little, one hand on Sherlock’s chest, just above the bullet wound. They didn’t let death get in between them, and they won’t let themselves do that either. This love, built over years, intensified by their shared pain and adventure, the fondness for their daughter, is worth protecting, and now they will build the line of defence together. They were always best together.

 

John collapses on top of him. They don’t let go of each other for the rest of the night.

* * *

 

 

The click of the door opening makes Rosie look up from her book. She sits in her armchair, a horrible looking green monster with a flowery pattern. She picked it out a few years ago in an antique shop and, despite it's terrible looks, loves it dearly.

* * *

 

She smiles at them, places the book on the armrest and hurries towards them. Sherlock can see the sparkle of hope in her eyes. She can see it too, then, the part they were able to fix in that cabin. Seeing the tension leave her small body brings tears to Sherlock’s eyes.

They return to the cabin every year, a kind of ritual. They make love in the moonlight, make campfires by the lake, and most importantly, they talk. It’s uncomfortable, sometimes. It’s worth it, every time.

 

 

 

 

[buy me a coffee](buymeacoff.ee/StrJohnlock)

**Author's Note:**

> When I said that I love you I meant that I love you forevaaaaaaaa


End file.
